


All by my lonesome

by randomisedmongoose



Series: Behind closed doors [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: .... but in German though, Anal Fingering, Masturbation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 07:19:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17055587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: The members of The Mighty Nein, all by their lonesome, each in their own way.





	All by my lonesome

**Author's Note:**

> This is a followup of "Me" time (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583919), which followed Vox Machina's exploits behind closed doors. Now, we take a peek at The Mighty Nein!
> 
> Tags are for all chapters - not all chapters have the same kind of content! Set in a sort of nebulous “now” with no real continuity. Not spoiler-free!
> 
> Read the notes on each chapter behore you read, as some chapters have potential squicks and triggers (especially Calebs and Notts).
> 
> Now this one is darker, guys. Caleb is a guy with intense feelings of self-loathing and self-hatred (among other things). How would that function when you also have sexual needs? Maybe like this. IMPORTANT NOTE: Skip this chapter if you want to avoid reading about self-harm, intrusive thoughts or suicidal ideation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this one is darker, guys. Caleb is a guy with intense feelings of self-loathing and self-hatred (among other things). How would that function when you also have sexual needs? Maybe like this. IMPORTANT NOTE: Skip this chapter if you want to avoid reading about self-harm, intrusive thoughts or suicidal ideation.
> 
> If there are any German-speaking Critters out there willing to give me feedback on the German phrases in this work, I'd gladly take it - I'm Swedish and speak a tiny bit German, but these are all bot-translations.

Caleb has needs. He doesn’t want them.

Caleb is very, very adept at ignoring certain aspects of his person. He’s proficient in it, you might say, an old hand at it; he’s had so, so much time to learn how not to listen to parts of himself. This body, this husk, this unnecessary collection of bones and blood and slime and meat. All it is is a hindrance. It hurts, and hungers, and tires – all these requests – groom me, feed me, let me rest, take care of me.

It doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it.

_[Du bist nutzlos. Du bist besser dran tot.]_

He punishes it for needing. No food. No water. No washing. No sleep. But still, it needs. This too, it needs. And it’s become easier to fulfil it, as he becomes more adept in the use of magic. Tricks, little things that students teach each other in the dorms at night – he’s re-learned them again. Uses for spells that surely never crossed the minds of the old, wise conjurers that first discovered them.

Surely. Surely.

Caleb has needs. It goes long until he gives in, but finally, he cannot put it off anymore.

He. Does not like. Touching himself. Or others touching him. Never did. Never did. Not even when he was young. He was content to kiss, to hold hands, to-

… dance…

 _Ja_. To dance.

It wasn’t until he learned Mage Hand that he actually started jerking off. Finally, finally, not having to touch himself, but still get release? It was a _gottverdammt_ paradigm shift, for a teenager. Suddenly, he was sneaking off between lessons, just to get a quick wank done. It was good, it was useful, it cleared his head for more important things. There were books, and learning, and spells – and friends… All other things were just distractions.

After… _das Brennen_ … he didn’t do it. Not once, during all those years in the asylum – the need just wasn’t there, and even if it had been the magic was gone too. His mind was chaos, twisted, folded in on itself like a crumpled, half-charred castle made of wood and paper. Normal, coherent thought, normal, healthy feelings, all corrupted or torn away.

After he got out, it crept back, try as he may to ignore it, to fight it. It’s still just a distraction, and he has so much to do now, so much to accomplish. Try as he must, he gives in sometimes. The Mage Hand does for most of those times, but eventually it builds up to a point where he needs to do something more.

They’re in a tavern, with actual beds and actual food. It still feels strange that life can be like this – soft, and permissive, and calm. Nott is out about town somewhere, probably people-watching and picking pockets, like she does. Usually, he wouldn’t have let her, would have convinced her to stay in or accompanied her, but tonight, he merely made a show of protesting (and doesn’t that shame burn, to put his needs over her safety). But he needs to be alone for this.

Just once, just this once.

He makes sure the door is locked, both profanely and arcanely. Given time she’d be able to pick it, of course, but the noise would alert him and hopefully give him enough time to clear away the evidence. He wouldn’t want her too see this. It’s unthinkable. None of the others either. He would never. _Never_. Ask another person to see this, to do this with him. To him. The thought is repulsing. _He_ is repulsing. Why would anyone?

[ _Du bist ekelhaft._ _Niemand liebt dich._ ]

He fumbles in his component pouch for a small piece of wood and a string. He quickly wraps the string around the wood and mutters a few words. The air moving and a slight displacement of the light is the only things that herald the arrival of his Unseen Servant. It has no body, no face. A blessing. He would never be able to look it in the eyes. He quickly undresses, leaving the clothes in a messy heap. It’s not as if they can get any dirtier, he’s made sure of that.

His body is gangly, underfed, unwashed, scarred. Not like Molly is scarred, haphazardly and all over – most of Caleb’s scars are small, short, in painfully neat rows along the insides of his arms and thighs, criss-crossed here and there by other scars from misfired spells and errant weapons. He just sits on the bed for a minute, awkwardly, gathering courage, back hunched, shoulders stooped. He wishes that he could do this without talking, but the Unseen Servant responds to verbal commands, not telepathy.

He’s so hard already, just from the anticipation. He’s needed this for so long. Needed, not wanted. He shifts uncomfortably on the bed, runs his hands over his unshaven face and sighs. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, the words clipped and rushed.

“Schmidt. Ah, you will- you will suck my cock. You will suck it deep into your mouth until I say stop.”

There is a light thud, as if someone had just kneeled on the carpet before him. First, he’s unsure if the command has registered, but suddenly, he feels something envelop his cock. It’s not warm or wet, but there is a tightness and a vacuum. It gently rolls the foreskin back and starts moving.

His hands tighten into claws, digging into the bed. Oh. Oh, finally.

The invisible mouth takes his cock deeply. He has no idea whether or not this feels like intercourse, but it fulfils his need. To fulfil a task to the best of its ability, yes, such a good spell. The invisible lips are caressing his shaft, moving rhythmically up and down. An unseen tongue licks the tip, smearing the precum and adding some moisture.

“ _Halt!_ Ah, s-stop.“

The pressure disappears. He can almost feel the attentive presence between his knees. He fumbles in his bag for a small flask – well stoppered and unlabelled, with a viscous, yellow liquid inside. He uncorks it and holds it out for the Servant to take.

“Uh, you will – you will take the oil and rub it gently on my cock.”

The flask is raised in the air, and a generous helping of oil is pooled in one invisible palm. It looks strange – the liquid forms to the unseen hand and hovers there for a second, a wobbling, amber bead floating in mid-air. Then, the Unseen Servant carefully applies the oil with long, gentle strokes. Caleb bites his lip and closes his eyes.

“ _Gut_. _Danke_. Now suck it again. Just- just the tip. Suck it and lick it. And use the other hand to, to stroke.”

Schmidt does at it is told. The oil makes it better, so much better. The invisible mouth takes him in, impossibly deep, licking, sucking, enveloping him with luxurious pressure. Caleb gasps and grips the mattress even harder. It’s slick and firm and wonderful, and-

It’s- it’s not enough. _Götterdämmerung_ , it’s not enough.

Caleb almost sobs with frustration. He puts a leg up on the bed and lays back, staring at the ceiling. He pushes his knuckles hard against his temples and drag his fingers down his face as the Unseen Servant expertly runs its invisible hands up and down his shaft. It is so good, it brings him so close, so achingly close.

Needs, _gottverdammte_ needs.

_[Widerlich. Du solltest einfach sterben.]_

“Schmidt. Put- Huh. Hhhaah.” The sensation of the strong, unseen hands is muddling his focus, making it hard to think. “Put more oil on your hand, and then. Then put your fingers into, into my ass. And rub my prostate.”

The flask of oil is raised again. An amber sheen in the air reveals Schmidt’s fingers for a second before the Unseen Servant responds to Caleb’s command. Gently, the fingers press on his opening, circling and pushing. He forces himself to relax and let them in. The fingers wait for him, then enter slowly but firmly. One finger first, then two. The servant starts moving them in and out, putting pressure behind his balls. The stroking motions sends bolts of electricity through Caleb’s body, exploding almost painfully at the base of his skull. He fists handfuls of the bedsheets and grits his teeth.

How does it know, though? Hhhah, it’s not sentient, it’s never fucked, how can it know what he needs? How does it, aaah… how does it even work? The answer is fact, a lesson in conjuration from many years ago –

**You see, young Widogast, the Unseen Servant is nothing but an extension of your will. See it as a personification of your need for the task at hand to be completed.**

He immediately bangs his head sideways against the headboard. _Nein! Nicht du! Nicht jetzt!_ He bangs it again until the pain and the pleasure are intense enough to drive the voice from his head. His conjuration doesn’t break stride, having gotten no counter-command.

“Please, just make this go away, just get it over with- you will s-stop when, when I climax, _bitte, mach es einfach_ …“

Schmidt, manifest solution for his repressed urge, presses two invisible fingers on Caleb’s prostate as it jerks him off with the other hand. For once, all thoughts are pushed from his mind, leaving behind them a blank void of much-needed pleasure.

Crying, gripping the bedclothes tight, Caleb comes.

The Unseen Servant gently withdraws and stands to attention again. Caleb lies splayed on the bed for a long while, his breathing slowly stabilising. He revels in the emptiness. Eventually, he looks up. An uneven spattering of white picks out a faint outline of a humanoid figure. He runs his hands down his face and sits up with a groan.

“Please, uh. Clean this up. _Danke schön._ ”

Schmidt obeys. The oil is stoppered and put away, the stains are wiped up. Caleb shoos it off as it tries to clean him as well. Instead, he pours lukewarm water into the washstand and wipes himself down. He scrubs himself thoroughly, much more so than he usually does. No stains. No stains.

He dresses quickly, the familiar heavy warmth of the layers of dirty clothes grounding him and protecting him. He sits down by the little desk and pulls out one of his books. He stares at it, distantly rubbing the aching side of his head. Eventually, the sound of a piece of cloth falling to the floor alerts him to Schmidt’s passing.

_[Du verdienst es nicht. Mörder.]_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, more to come (hee hee)!


End file.
